


The Red and the Black - Conversations Between Vigilantes

by tryptophan



Series: When They're not Saving the World [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: CA:CW mention, Catholic Character, Character Study, Coffee, Conversations, Frank likes Taylor Swift, Frank's dog - Freeform, Gen, Poetry, Roman Catholicism, Unreliable Narrator, angsty fluff, fluffy angst?, literary (and other) allusions, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryptophan/pseuds/tryptophan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a couple of months since Frank dealt with the Blacksmith and Matt came clean to Karen. Matt and Frank, the loneliest vigilantes, have a tacit ceasefire. They meet on rooftops periodically to talk to another breathing human, and it's turned into a ritual that means more than they'd ever admit. Some nights it gets heavy, some nights they discuss Taylor Swift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vigilantes not-so Anonymous

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of free-form. I've got an indeterminate number of chapters in which they discuss important and unimportant things. I love the characterization for Frank Castle on the Netflix show, but will be bringing in some comic book elements for him (and probably Daredevil, too).

It happened quickly, but tacitly. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and the Punisher became, not exactly friends, but perhaps acquaintances who seemed to enjoy each other’s companionship, possibly because neither man had another soul to call a friend in the world, though Hell would certainly freeze over before either would acknowledge as much. Daredevil had found the Punisher on a rooftop one evening, had knocked the gun out of his hands and given him a split lip for good measure. The Punisher returned the favor, but instead of fighting tooth and nail, as they had in their early go-rounds, Daredevil could sense the Punisher was holding back, and held back in turn. In the end, each sensing that the other was fighting more for formality’s sake, they declared a ceasefire of sorts. They understood the tacit conditions: Frank left his heavy weaponry wherever it was he stored it, and Daredevil wouldn’t attempt to apprehend the Punisher. And so, the de facto “Vigilantes Anonymous” group of two formed, though neither was wholly anonymous. Frank knew that Daredevil had uncanny hearing, and would know when he was in the neighborhood, and Daredevil knew that if Frank wanted a quiet evening (which, for him, meant stalking his prey rather than finishing it), he’d appear on a rooftop with a thermos of bad coffee. 

It had been quiet lately. The Punisher’s presence had created a lull in the battle for control of the criminal activity, though Daredevil knew now it was just the calm before the storm, and another battle for king of the trash heap would commence shortly. Daredevil heard the Punisher’s heartbeat, smelled the instant coffee, metal, gunpowder, and dried blood that defined the man. He leapt from one rooftop to another, tucking into a roll and using the momentum to propel him back to his feet, and walked up to the sullen man in black. 

“Frank.”

“Red.”

Frank was resting with his back against a chimney, and Matt mirrored him against a wall on the edge of the roof. Frank handed Daredevil a Styrofoam cup filled with instant coffee. Daredevil sniffed at it, tasted it, and grimaced.

“Didn’t your ma teach you manners?” Frank chided.

“Didn’t your ma teach you to make coffee? And… decaf? Really?”

“Fine, Red. Next time you bring the coffee.”

“Maybe I will.” Matt took a sip, because, while the coffee was nigh on inedible, it was warm, and there was a cold breeze whipping across the rooftop. “Who are you watching tonight?” Frank knew that bringing a sniper rifle to one of these rooftop coffee dates would earn him a split lip and probably another concussion, so he planned surveillance nights when he thought Matt might show up. 

Frank drained his cup and looked at the street below. “Louie Schitti. Dumb as rocks enforcer for the Gnucci. He decided kneecapping people wasn’t exciting or lucrative enough, so he decided to try to sell some girls into prostitution. Well, one of them proved a bit too lively for him, so he hit her. Guess he though her skull was as hard as his fucking skull, ‘cause he killed her. Gives the rest of us Sicilians a bad name.”

“You’re Sicilian?” Matt asked. Frank grunted, which Matt took as confirmation.

“And you’re Irish.”

Matt jerked a little, unsettled. “Good guess,” he said in an attempt to recover.

“There ain’t a lot of Italian ‘Murdocks’ running around Hell’s Kitchen.”

“How did you know…?”

“Oh, c’mon, Red. It’s pretty obvious. Same height, same build, same scruff. Maybe you should shave for your day job. You’re even talking in that same _sotto voce_ ‘I’m a blind man with supersensitive hearing pretending to be a suave lawyer’ voice you used in court.” Frank paused. “What do you tell them?”

“Tell whom?” asked Matt.

“Your friends. Karen and your partner.”

“About what?”

“Why you walk into work with split lips and shiners.”

Matt chuckled mirthlessly. “Karen thought I was an alcoholic, and then asked if I was in a fight club. They both know now, though.”

“Now?”

“Foggy found out about a year ago. I told Karen a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah? They take it well?”

Matt fidgeted with his gloves. “Not so much. Foggy and I were good, but then, when Reyes’ office was shot up, he got hurt… He still thinks I should quit, and I’m through trying to justify myself. He took a new job at another law firm. It’s a good one, and he’ll do great there. He made the right choice. ” Matt paused to swallow some coffee. “I told Karen. She was the first person I told voluntarily. On Christmas, of all days. Hell of a Christmas present. But she said I’d lied to her from the start, and that everything we had was built on lies, and she didn’t need that. She took a job with the Bulletin. It’s a good fit; right in her wheelhouse. The research impels her.”

“I’ve seen her articles. She’s not bad.” Frank drained the last of the thermos into his cup. “And you did lie to her. At least by omission. Probably commission, too. If you want her back, go apologize to her and own up to being the fucking idiot you’ve been.”

Matt didn’t respond, and Frank didn’t press.


	2. A Catholic from New York, once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank tells Matt some of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to sexual abuse of a minor. No details, just that it happened (and not to either of our protagonists).

Matt made good on his promise, or perhaps threat, to supply the libations. He sensed Frank on a nearby rooftop, grabbed a couple of drinks from a nearby shop, and suited up quickly. 

“Frank.”

“Red.”

Frank was positioned such that he had a good view, but wasn’t easily seen. “You’ve been busy. Police scanner had you with four different busts in as many nights. Still haven’t apologized to your friends?”

Matt walked over to Frank. “I’ve had a lot of free time. Turns out I'm good at pushing people out of my life. Or they leave. Or die. Look, you going to keep lecturing me about my social life, and I’d say that’s the pot calling the kettle black, or do you want your coffee?”

Frank accepted the cup, tested the temperature, and took a gulp. “Latte?” he asked derisively. “What sort of shit is this? Waste of perfectly good espresso.”

“You brought your shit last time, I brought mine this time. And it’s not that bad. It’s a good roast, and it’s organic milk.” Matt paused and took a sip. “My priest, of all people, turned me on to them.”

Frank chuckled incredulously and shook his head. “The devil really is a Catholic.” Frank paused and considered the view, watching the last traces of dusk fade into the never-really-that dark of a city at night. “He know, too? What you do?”

Matt sipped at his drink, and turned away from Frank, his cheek towards the last light of the sun, as though he could sense it (he probably can, thought Frank). “Yeah. He figured it out on his own, too.” 

“Those must be some interesting confessions. ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I punched out a pimp and broke some ninjas’ noses.’”

Matt chuckled. “If only that were the worst of it.” He sat back, as relaxed as he ever could be in his Devil costume. “I was never an altar boy.”

“Hm?”

“That night in the cemetery, when I wouldn’t let you brain an Irish mobster with a hammer. You called me an altar boy. I was never an altar boy.” Frank snorted. “They didn’t want the blind kid knocking things over or bumping into the priest. And can you imagine them giving the poor, helpless, blind kid a ball and chain with flaming incense?”

“Thurible.” Matt made a small, inquisitive noise. “It’s called a ‘thurible,' the ball and chain for incense.” Frank continued. 

“So _you_ were an altar boy,” Matt said, half accusatory, half amused. 

Frank paused to drain the remainder of his coffee. “Seminarian.”

Matt laughed, then realized Frank wasn’t joking. “You would’ve been a terrible priest,” he said, shaking his head, still amused at the thought.

“No shit.”

“Why’d you leave?”

Frank crushed the empty cup. “When I was a kid, maybe 12 or so, there was this girl down the block. She was younger than me. Pretty, real sweetheart. Loved cats. Was always trying to bring a kitten home, even though her ma was allergic.” He smiled at the memory. “Big messy Italian family, aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents all living on the same block, most of them in the same building. This beautiful little girl, she’d get real quiet when her uncle one was around, just withdraw into herself. Years later, she told me he’d molested her for years. She told her mom, but her mom didn’t believe her, and she loved her uncle, despite it all. But she confronted him about it when she was grown up. You know what that bastard said? He said that he’d confessed it to their priest, over and over throughout the years, always wanting to stop, always swearing it was the last time, and always failing. He was sorry, but he’d been absolved, he wasn’t doing it anymore, and that was that. And I realized that if I were a priest and someone told me that they’d hurt a child like that, I couldn’t forgive them, and I couldn’t keep silent.

“So I left. And then I met Maria. She got pregnant, and I needed a job, and I was always good at being a Marine, so I took up their offer for Officer school.” Frank got to his feet, peered over the edge, saw nothing of interest, but continued looking around. 

“It wasn’t right for me, and I went in for the wrong reasons. Thought I needed to get away from something. But that something was in me.” He pulled himself away from the edge of the roof. “Thanks for the coffee, Red,” he said. He walked away and chucked the crumpled cup into the airshaft of the old law tenement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm winging this on multiple topics. If I've made any egregious errors, please do let me know. I also maintain I get to have a little hand-wavey "comics!" leeway.


	3. The same side of the same coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank rocked back on his haunches. “You sit there in judgment like it’s some sort of credit to you that you’ve never killed anyone. Well, it’s not. You don’t get to pretend to virtue if it’s something that doesn’t tempt you, something you’ve never had to do.”
> 
> Matt looked away and bowed his head. “I’ve wanted to. I tried, even,” he said in a quiet voice. “I failed, and I’m very thankful for that.”

“Why do you keep finding me?” Frank asked as the Devil walked up behind him. 

“Hello to you, too,” Matt responded. “Why do you keep letting yourself be found, unarmed, no less?” 

“Who says I’m not armed?”

Daredevil paused and tipped his chin slightly. “Point taken. Okay, with just a 9mm on one ankle and a knife on the other.”

Frank shook his head, disbelieving, but thinking he really shouldn’t be disbelieving with Matt anymore. “Okay, I get that you have super hearing, and probably smell, and touch and taste and who the fuck knows what else, but how the fuck did you know that? That’s creepy, man.”

Matt half-shrugged. “I can hear the handle of the knife move a little when you move. As for the gun, I can smell the solvent you use to clean it, and I can-- I can just sort of ‘feel’ the caliber. And since you shot me with it, I know to sense for it.” 

“You’re okay spending time with someone who shot you in the head?” Frank asked incredulously.

Matt smirked. "Well, you didn't succeed." He paced the rooftop, taking in all the sounds of the city. “And you haven’t tried to kill me since then. I don’t think you’re crazy. I don’t necessarily think you’re fully in your right mind, nor do I agree with your conclusions, but you also have a code by which you abide. And if you’re not killing people, well, I could keep worse company.”

Frank rasped out a laugh. “I’m a fugitive. You’re a Catholic lawyer vigilante. Isn’t every part of your moral compass telling you to run away or turn me in?”

Matt laughed. “Kinda," he admitted, "but as I said, I could keep worse company.”

“I know you gotta be a little fucked in the head to put on a costume and try to be an army of one against all the filth in this city, but you got some serious issues, you know?”

Matt smiled wryly. “I’m aware.”

"You weren't wrong, you know.” Frank said after a pause.

“I’m often right about a lot of things,” Matt said, trying for bravado and charm and only half failing.

Frank shook his head. “Asshole. You weren’t wrong,” he continued, “about people like us doing shit like this because we’ve lost someone. Who’d you lose?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet? Googled it or beaten it out of someone?”

“I told you, Red, I don’t care who you are. I know your name, but that’s all. You wanna tell me, I’ll listen, you don’t, we’ll talk about the Mets.”

Matt scuffed the toe of his boot on the rooftop. “I never knew my mom. My dad raised me. He was a boxer, but he had trouble getting fights, so he got in with some people. Irish mob, I think. He was a good fighter, but he threw fights for them. Until one time he didn’t. He left that night, kissed me goodbye, messed up my hair, and gave me a hug. That was unusual. He was never mean or violent with me, but he wasn’t a big hugger either. I— I didn’t think anything of it. I listened to the fight. He won.” Matt paused, smiling sadly at the memory of his father’s greatest win. His smile fell away and he continued, grave and serious and bitter. “And that night, before he got home, some men shot him in the head because he wouldn’t take a dive.” Matt turned towards Frank. “Would you have killed him? Small-time fighter getting mixed up in the Irish mob?” 

“I kill men who do that shit to people like your father,” Frank shot back, offended that Matt would dare compare him to a mob enforcer. “What your father did, getting in with the Irish mob, was stupid, but I don’t kill stupid. I kill killers.” Frank inclined his head towards a black sedan and a trio of men in expensive suits. “Gnucci family. They were involved in getting the human ring trafficking up and running. Destroying lives. Selling women and children into slavery and prostitution. The fat one, Charlie, likes to test out the product before he ships it off. He degrades them. He breaks these people, destroys their lives. And I’m gonna kill him. Not tonight; I respect you enough not to do it tonight, but soon.” Frank sat back down and gulped some more bad coffee. “You got a problem with that, Red? Is he a special little snowflake with hope in his soul, too?”

“As you said, you’re talking to a Catholic lawyer. Our justice system isn’t perfect, but it’s better than your methods. Ultimately, it’s just not your call to make.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s God’s call who lives and dies, or some bullshit like that?”

“Yeah, Frank,” Matt said, quietly.

“So then,” he continued sardonically “you think was it God’s will that my family, my children were murdered in front of me?”

“No, someone ended their lives unnaturally.” 

“You a goddamn bleeding heart, Red? Do you condemn all killing?” Frank challenged him, not meanly, but still forcefully.

“I fought to get the death penalty removed from the list of possibilities in your case,” Matt responded calmly.

“Then how ‘bout soldiers, marines?” Frank pressed, trying to needle Matt.

“Well, there’s the Just War doctrine,” Matt started, slipping more into college-educated Matthew Murdock, and out of Daredevil, man who gets what he wants using his fists. “If it can’t be resolved except through force, and it’s declared properly, through states, with the support of the populace, and it could be won and avert more bloodshed, then yes, killing in that case is the lesser of the two evils. Now, Iraq, Afghanistan, I don’t know if those were Just wars. But what you’re doing here, in New York, this isn’t a war, let alone a just one. No one but you thinks we’re at war, and any victories you have are going to be pyrrhic. And you know all this. You were a marine, you were a seminarian. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. So I ask, why do you want to hear it from me?”

Frank rocked back on his haunches. “You sit there in judgment like it’s some sort of credit to you that you’ve never killed anyone. Well, it’s not. You don’t get to pretend to virtue if it’s something that doesn’t tempt you, something you’ve never had to do.”

Matt looked away and bowed his head. “I’ve wanted to. I tried, even,” he said in a quiet voice. “I failed, and I’m very thankful for that.”

“Who the hell pissed you off enough for you to want to kill them?” Frank asked, genuinely curious. 

Matt sighed. “Wilson Fisk. He was controlling a lot of the crime in Hell’s Kitchen. He framed Karen for murder, he had an old lady killed because she didn’t want to move from her apartment. I—I didn’t see another way to make it stop.”

Frank gave a half smirk. “You and me, Red, we’re not so different. I know you’d like to think we’re two sides of the same coin, but we’re not. We’re the same side of the same coin, just struck a little differently at the mint.” Frank scoffed. “Wish you hadn’t failed. Then again, I’d still be in prison, and who knows what fragile state you’d be in if you’d actually succeeded.” He sniffed at the dregs of the coffee in his thermos, wrinkled his nose, and tossed the liquid across the rooftop. “That’s okay, though. I promised him I’d kill him next time I saw him.”

Matt made to protest, but Frank waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re gonna try to bring him in, get to him before I do, but just think about where he’ll go and what he’ll do even if you manage that again.”

Matt walked to the edge and prepared to make a Daredevil exit. “I guess we’ll just cross that bridge when we get to it. See you around, Frank.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole series has ended up way heavier and way more religious than I had originally intended. Sorry, I think. Hope it's a feature, not a bug. There will be a little more lightness and humor in the next chapter, at least for part of it.


	4. Haters gonna hate (what fathers do for their daughters)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It wrecked me,” Frank said, all mirth replaced by the anger he used to mask his sadness. “Fatherhood. It was the best thing to happen to me. Maybe the only good thing ever to happen to me, but it wrecked me."
> 
> In which Daredevil and the Punisher discuss Taylor Swift and children over Thai food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is and will remain mainly plotless, with the two vigilantes meeting to share bad drinks, the occasional meal, and the pretty much the only human contact they have at this point in their lives. That said, I do have an idea of where it's going and how it'll end, but the number of chats they have between then is flexible. If you have something you think they should hash out, mention it in the comments and I'll see if I can do something with it (mostly predicated on how much knowledge I have of the subject).

“I’m not saying she’s good. I’m not saying she’s bad, either. I’m just saying, if you don’t like her, she’s not for you. Not everything is for you.” Frank punctuated his words by spearing a slightly undercooked piece of squash with his fork.

Their latest rooftop rendez-vous involved food from the Thai place on the corner of Matt’s block. He told Frank he could sense that he’d been eating nothing but MREs, canned corn, Campbell’s soup, and instant coffee, and was sick of smelling that on him, so he showed up with a bagful of takeout. Matt had played it safe, ordering a pumpkin curry, Pad See Ew, papaya salad, and a pair of Thai iced teas. He figured there’d be something Frank would eat, not that he figured Frank was a picky eater, based on his current diet. Frank, it turned out, was not a picky eater, and actually liked Thai food, insofar as he allowed himself to like anything. They’d split the food evenly, and Frank gave Matt shit about the overly-sweet drinks (“What the Christ is this?! I think I just got diabetes.”), which was Matt’s intention all along. Matt had, however, made the mistake of speaking ill of the song playing in the restaurant, complaining that “haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate hate,” while catchy, was not particularly inspired songwriting. This apparently touched a nerve in Frank, who came back with a surprisingly passionate defense of Ms. Swift. 

“It doesn’t have to be for me. That’s not what I’m saying,” Matt countered. “I know there’s good music I don’t enjoy. Stravinsky. Carter Family. The Rolling Stones.”

Frank stabbed his fork in Matt’s direction. “You take that back about the Stones,” he said through a mouthful of pumpkin. 

“Hey, I said they were good, didn’t I? I just don’t particularly like them,” Matt continued. “But Taylor Swift isn’t good. Her lyrics are insipid, and she’s just so auto-tuned.”

“Compared to the alternatives, she’s great. I mean, have you heard Katy Perry? If you had a ten-year old daughter, who’d you want her listening to? At least Taylor Swift is kinda fun and sweet.”

Matt swallowed wrong and choked on his drink. “You like her, don’t you. You _like_ Taylor Swift’s music! You know,” he continued, faux-serious, “you should just ‘shake it off.’” Matt got a devilish glint in his eye, which was totally lost on Frank because Matt was still wearing his devil helmet. “I bet you like Single Ladies, too. Know the words, the dance…”

Frank gave a self-deprecating grin. “What I may or may not know about the words and dance moves to Queen Bey’s most popular song is classified and known only to a handful of Marines. You don’t have that sort of clearance. As for Taylor Swift, you try living with a ten-year old who only wants to listen to that. All I’m saying is that it grows on you. And again, there are much worse options.” Frank’s grin faded, he devoted more attention than strictly necessary to forking one of the wide noodles. 

Matt cleared the last wayward drops of Thai iced tea from his lungs. He opened his mouth to divert the conversation to less emotional topics, when Frank continued.

“It wrecked me,” Frank said, all mirth replaced by the anger he used to mask his sadness. “Fatherhood. It was the best thing to happen to me. Maybe the only good thing ever to happen to me, but it wrecked me. Tore my heart out, tore it apart, smashed it back together, all with one look from the gray-blue eyes of a new person who’s just minutes old. It’s a love you can’t know till you experience it.” Frank took a drink of the unnaturally orange drink, grimaced. “You want kids someday?”

Matt finished chewing and swallowed. “Maybe. No. I don’t know. I don’t think my life is… conducive… to being a stable parent.”

“I get ya. I thought that, too. No one is ever ready to be a parent. If someone tells you they’re 100% ready, they’re full of shit. Everyone’s terrified. It could always be at a better time, better circumstances. Living in a better place, less trouble at work, more money. But it happens and you go with it because you have to. It turns your life upside down and inside out. You don’t live for yourself anymore, not when there’s a tiny being dependent on you for everything, trusting you implicitly when you ain’t done a goddamn thing to earn that trust. Makes it so you’d do anything to live up to her expectations, be the man she thinks you are.

“It’s how I lost my faith, you know,” Frank continued. Matt looked up, waiting for him to continue. “Yeah, I know, you probably thought it was when my family was murdered, or maybe the first time I killed someone, or when I left the seminary. No, it was the first time I held my baby girl in my arms.” He put his fork down and rubbed his temples. “I just saw this beautiful, perfect, innocent person. All she knew was love, and it broke my heart that the world wouldn’t always show her that love, that she was going to get hurt and scarred. And I thought, ‘she’s absolutely perfect.’ But Maria and I, we weren’t married when she got pregnant. Maria’s family never really forgave me for that, even though we got married before Lisa was born. See, they thought less of the baby because she was conceived out of wedlock, and they thought God did, too. Now, that’s bullshit, but then I got thinking, God thinks this tiny, perfect child is already marred by sin. And I know what you’re thinking, that that’s what Baptism is for. But she’s perfect. How could she be sinful. How could God look at her and not see what I saw. And I realized I couldn’t worship a God who didn’t love this child as much as I loved her, as unconditionally as I loved her.”

Matt knew better than to look at Frank with pity, and so went the other direction. “Isn’t that the opposite of how it usually works?” he started, gently but a touch sardonically. “People have kids and believe in God again, get more religious.”

“Who said anything about believing in God,” he said, the tenderness that characterized his voice when he spoke of his daughter giving way to the hard edge again. “I said I lost my faith. I still believe God exists. I just think he’s a sadistic fuck. You’re probably right,” Frank continued, returning to his original train of though. “You shouldn’t have kids. You sure as shit can’t live for anyone but yourself.” Matt started to protest, but Frank shushed him. “Oh, I know, you’re going to say you take all this upon yourself to save the city, but you won’t save anyone who really matters to you. Sure, you’ll make sure they don’t die, but you won’t change your life, your self to let them in. You just cut them out of your life, push them away.”

Matt raised his chin defiantly. “They left.”

“Yeah, and what have you done to get them back?” asked Frank, staring down Matt, even though he knew Matt couldn’t see him do it, per se. Matt suddenly found his rice very interesting. Frank jerked his head in a sharp nod. “Thought so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t seem to keep from letting Frank get the last word, even though I don't necessarily side with him. 
> 
> The list of things Frank has fucked up ideas about includes, but is not limited to:  
> Love  
> God  
> Justice  
> Mercy


	5. The Light of the Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If your eye is sound, your whole body will be filled with light; but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be in darkness."
> 
> In which our vigilantes eat some food and swap quotes at each other.

Not to be outdone by the Thai carryout, for their next meet up, Frank showed up with a bag of Middle Eastern food. “Hey, Red,” he said as he set the bag down. “Döners, tabbouli, falafel, hummus. Got hooked on this kinda stuff while serving in Iraq. Best goddamn food in the world,” he said as he unpacked the containers. “My ma is probably spinning in her grave at that. She cracked me with a wooden spoon once because I said I liked our neighbor’s marinara better than hers.”

Matt chuckled as he accepted a döner. “Even I know better than to insult an Italian woman’s cooking.”

“I didn’t insult her cooking,” Frank said as he cracked open the lid to the hummus. “I just said Mrs. Messina’s tasted even better.” 

Matt made for the veritable mountain of tabbouli. “Sister Agatha made… these weird pastries for us kids.”

Frank knew where this story was going and broke in with a laugh. “Minni di Sant’Agata.”

“Yeah,” replied Matt, clearly still a bit bemused by the memory. “Well, she handed one to me. I suppose she didn’t approve of the thirteen year-old boy fondling the breast-shaped pastry, but you know, blind, so that’s how I explored the shape of it. Then I bit into it, and I wasn’t expecting a filling. I guess I must’ve made a face, and that ruffled her feathers. She was the baker, and I didn’t get dessert for a month after that.”

“Catholic school, huh?”

“Yeah.” Matt broke off a piece of falafel and swiped it through the hummus. “And orphanage. I ended up there after my dad died.”

“Tough break.”

“Yeah. It could’ve been worse, I guess. I mean, obviously I’d give anything to have my dad back, but the sisters weren’t cruel or unfair.”

Matt tipped his head towards downtown, where he could sense people enjoying the unseasonably fair weather. Some nights, the crime, the violence, the filth overwhelmed the light in the city, but tonight, everything seemed relaxed and content. “The city’s humming tonight. Times like this I love being a New Yorker.” Frank scoffed. “You really don’t see any beauty in it?”

“No, Red, I don't.” Frank said, tucking some wayward scraps of meat back into his kebab. “I look at it, I see murders and rapists, thugs and pushers. You ever been down south, Red?”

“Does Jersey count?” Matt offered with a self-deprecating grin.

“No, Jersey does not count. In the south, they have fire ants. Sometimes, when their nest gets flooded, or something, they form a great big disgusting ball of fire ants, and you have ants drowning and ants scrambling to get on top so they don’t drown. That’s how I see this city. A bunch of drowning vermin trying to claw their way over other vermin to get to the top of the vermin heap.”

“But these vermin, they have stories, lives,” Matt replied. “People who love them, whom they love. They have kids, dogs, hobbies. Yeah, some are probably Yankees fans, but most of them have something good, some redeeming quality.

“Why should they get another chance when their victims don't?”

“So, you’re more ‘eye for an eye’ than ‘turn the other cheek.” 

“Damn right.”

“Mercy’s off the table for you, then?”

“Look around. You see any mercy in this rotting world?”

“A thousand tiny mercies every day. But all you see is ‘an eye for an eye.’ Aren’t you worried about being judged against that standard yourself?”

Frank shrugged, entire being exuding resignation and defiance. “I’ve accepted it. I expect it.”

Matt regarded Frank with something approaching compassion. “’If your eye is sound, your whole body will be filled with light; but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be in darkness.’” Matt left the words hanging, hesitant to continue. While he and Frank could go ten rounds on when and whom it was okay to kill, this was an indictment on Frank’s character, on his soul.

“’And if the light in you is darkness, how great will the darkness be,’” Frank finished, quieter than either would’ve expected. He shook off the stillness that had settled over both of them and smirked. “’The devil can cite scripture for his own purpose.’”

“What’s that, Milton?” Matt asked.

“Shakespeare.” Frank corrected. Matt said nothing. “I used to read poetry,” he said, feeling an explanation was necessary. Matt smirked. “What? You’re a practicing Catholic who dresses up as the devil, a defense attorney who practices vigilante justice, and what, you’re laughing at a Marine reading poetry?”

“I’m sure there are Marines who read poetry. I just… didn’t expect you to be among them,” Matt responded, trying for tact, but allowing amusement to seep through. 

Frank shrugged. “My ma had some old books when I was growing up, and I worked my way through them. Then when I was in college and had all those options for classes, I figured I’d pick something I liked.”

Matt gestured to the city below them. “You see vermin, I see people, beautiful and wounded, struggling to do good, even as they fail.” He paused and began to recite again, “’in recognizing the humanity of our fellow beings, we pay ourselves the highest tribute.’”

“’A mind can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.’” Frank paused. “ _That’s_ Milton.” 

Matt just grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief interlude [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6525097), in case you're wondering what Matt's been doing off-screen and how he has the time and money to live as he does. 
> 
> Döners are the Turkish equivalent of gyros or shawarma. I concur with Frank; they are among the best goddamn foods on this planet. 
> 
> Minni di Sant’Agata, breast-shaped confections made for the feast of Saint Agatha, a Sicilian saint who was martyred and whose breasts were cut off, are a real [thing](http://www.lovesicily.com/blog/minne-di-sant-agata-saint-agathas-breasts-recipe)
> 
> “If your eye…” Mt 6:22-23 
> 
> “The devil can cite…” Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act I, Scene iii. 
> 
> "In recognizing the humanity…” Thurgood Marshall. I figure Matt doesn’t know poetry, but he sure loves him some Marshall.
> 
> “A mind can make…” Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I, line 255. 
> 
> Frank was a lieutenant in the USMC, which is a commissioned officer, requiring a four year degree. Foggy and the Colonel both imply he enlisted right out of high school, so in this universe, I have him enlisting, doing two tours, and then getting his BA. I think in this universe he majored in psychology, as that’d fit well with what the Colonel said about him just having a knack for sussing out how people tick. His minor was in English lit, concentrating in poetry. There's precedence for [that](http://s12.postimg.org/jhgzxkqvx/IMG_0630.jpg), too. I have no idea what Matt majored in; most of my lawyer friends have econ degrees, but I don’t see that for Matt.


	6. Heroes and their consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Frank consider the effects their actions have on their communities and their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs immediately after [In the Interim](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6525097).

Matt, not Daredevil showed up one evening, with Indian food. 

Frank did a double take. “Shit, Red, didn’t know you had civilian clothes. Figured you just kept swapping your lawyer suit for your devil suit.”

Matt grinned sheepishly. “I’ve been volunteering at a soup kitchen on Friday nights. Neither suit is really appropriate for that.” Matt set out generous portions of channa masala, aloo gobi, and a pair of naan. 

Frank inspected the containers. “What’s with all the veggie crap? Where’s the meat?” he asked, swapping some chickpeas for some of the cauliflower. He poked at the chickpeas, shrugged, and started eating.

“It’s Friday. It’s Lent,” Matt shrugged. 

Frank rolled his eyes. “Yeah, what are you giving up this year,” he asked, gesturing towards Matt’s clothing, “punching people?”

“Alcohol.”

Frank barked out a laugh. “Very creative.” 

Matt shrugged and tore off a piece of naan. “I went to law school. It’s kind of true what they say, that you learn law, but you also learn how to drink.” 

“Giving up punching people would probably be more of a sacrifice for you.”

“Probably,” Matt agreed. “The church I was just at, they’re putting together a group. ‘Heroes and their consequences,’ they’re calling it. It’s supposed to be people who’ve been affected by superheroes, mostly the Avengers, I think, but they specifically mentioned you and me, too.”

Frank laughed. “So, what we do is on par with aliens pouring out of a space hole in the sky.”

“What we do is probably more immediately applicable to most people’s everyday lives than aliens pouring out of a space hole in the sky,” Matt countered. 

“You got a point there,” Frank conceded. “You gonna go?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe. Who knows. How about you?”

“Am I still an escaped convict?”

“Well, Karen declared you dead, and the state assumes you’re dead, so maybe?” Matt poked at his channa masala. “Karen thought you were a natural consequence of me. That acceptance of Daredevil paved the way for someone who’d take it one step further. She told me she thought that maybe your methods work.” He paused, trying to force himself to vocalize his next thought. “And maybe I am responsible for you, indirectly. Your family died because taking down Fisk left a power vacuum and resulted in all the gangs fighting to be the big dog in town.” Matt paused. He’d finally conceded that he and Frank were much closer in execution than he’d like to admit, but he still couldn’t bring himself to say that his actions were more than indirectly responsible for Frank. “But what about you?” he continued. “What are your consequences?”

“I’ve told you, Red. I kill the people who need killing. What happens after that isn’t my concern.” 

“What happens after is there’s more bloodshed when they scramble to respond to that.”

“Then I’ll kill them, too.”

They both fell silent. Matt knew, had always known, that arguing with him was ultimately futile; Frank was not going to be deterred by reason. And yet, here he was, talking with a convicted murderer, and escaped con, because he had no one else to confide in. “A friend of mine seems to think I’m trying to martyr myself,” he began. “Awhile back she told me I was on a path to end up bloody and alone.” He paused briefly, and then continued. “And here I am. Not bloody today, but alone, as a consequence of the path I’ve chosen. I don’t know what the legacy of my life’s work will be, either Matt Murdock or Daredevil. I don’t know if this is what the rest of my life will be. I don’t know what this is doing to my soul.”

They continued eating in silence for a bit. Matt figured he knew the personal consequences of Frank’s actions, and didn’t bother asking for fear of poking the hornet’s nest. 

"I died,” Frank said at length.

"What?" Matt tilted his head towards Frank. This ranked low on the things Matt would've expected Frank to say.

“And not in some bullshit metaphorical ‘Frank Castle is dead, the Punisher survives’ way. I died.” Frank stabbed at a piece of cauliflower with his fork. “I was shot in the head with a 9mm, and the DA slapped a DNR on me. I died. My heart stopped for a full minute, if that nurse is to be believed. Now, I know, sometimes you hear people talking about floating towards some white light, seeing Jesus, seeing all their dead loved ones, or some shit like that. You know what I saw? I saw what I see every goddamn time I close my eyes. I saw my family mowed down in front of me. I saw my boy’s guts hanging out of his body. I saw blood bubbling out of my wife’s chest. I saw my daughter, perfect in every way-- except her fucking head. If that’s what I saw when I was dead, and that’s what I see when I’m alive, then what the fuck does it matter what I do?”

Matt felt there was nothing he could say, and so he said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates for the next week or so may be sporadic due to real life crap.


	7. (Un)Lucky Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frank and Matt celebrate St. Patrick's day in their own fashion, and the fate of Frank's dog is contemplated.

Matt hopped onto the rooftop, two Styrofoam cups in one hand, a thermos of black tea in the other. Frank turned and watched him approach. 

“What, no dinner this time?”

Matt gestured towards the St. Patrick’s Day revelers below them. “Everything smells like bad beer and vomit. Kinda kills the appetite. Besides, it’s your turn.” Frank grunted, and Matt took that as agreement. “Tea?” he offered. 

Frank shrugged. “Better than nothing, I guess.” Matt handed him a cup. Frank sniffed it before tasting it. “You make this?”

Matt nodded.

“Tastes like shit.” 

Matt grinned, satisfied with the expected reaction. “Not a tea drinker?”

“Why drink tea when you could drink coffee?” 

The streets below were filled with pub crawlers three sheets to the wind and dressed in green. Frank nodded towards the revelers. “Shouldn’t you be down there with your native people, drinking green piss water and singing maudlin ballads?”

“The Irish drink a lot of tea, too,” he offered. “My grandma always had a cup at hand.” Matt thought back to the previous year’s St. Patrick’s Day, when he, Karen, and Foggy drank themselves stupid at Josie’s and loved every minute of it. This year, he was spending it with a murderous, slightly touched vigilante with a penchant for coffee as black as his clothes. “The actual Irish aren’t so big into drinking till we pass out before noon on St. Patrick’s Day.” He sipped at his tea. “My grandma would make corned beef and cabbage and soda bread for my dad and me, and we’d all go to Mass.” 

Frank sipped at his tea. “You spend a lot of time with her?”

“She’d watch me when my dad couldn’t, when I was really little.” Matt smiled wryly at the memory. “She used to tell me that my dad, my grandpa, and I all had the Devil in us.”

“Is that a puberty reference or some shit?”

“No. I don’t think so. I hope not,” responded Matt, looking slightly scandalized.

“Your grandma sounds like a piece of work.”

“That she was,” Matt agreed.

“That why you run around in a Devil costume?”

Matt shrugged. “Sort of. They started called me ‘The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,’ so I decided to own it. The Devil can protect the good people of Hell’s Kitchen by scaring those who would do evil.”

“So what you’re saying is you’re the Bogeyman for shitbags?”

“Something like that,” Matt chuckled. “But with more punching.”

Frank nodded. “Shouldn’t you be patrolling or something, night like this?”

“Nah, the worst that’s going to happen is they puke and pass out. Too many people for the big players to be up to too much trouble.” Matt grimaced. As if on cue, a drunken twenty-something entered the alley nearest their building and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach. “Hey speaking of Irish,” he continued, “whatever happened to that dog you had?” Last I smelled it, they had it in the cemetery with you.”

“What makes you think it was my dog?” 

Matt shrugged. “I tracked its scent from the place where you first shot up the Irish back to your squat. You had a bag of dog food there. Not much of a guard dog,” he teased. “All it took was a few pieces of kibble, and I had a new best friend.”

Frank shook his head. “They were fighting that dog. He deserved better. He wasn’t a bad dog.” He paused, his face hardening. “As for what happened to him, how the fuck should I know. I was arrested that night, everyone else died or was taken in, so either he’s running free or picked up by animal control, and probably destroyed because he’d been used for fighting.”

Matt offered a sympathetic glance.

“It’s how it goes,” Frank said, resigned. “This dog, they tried to make him mean, make him a killer. He was betrayed by the people who were supposed to take care of him. Maybe he was mean to those bastards, but he was never vicious with me. But the shelters won’t see that. They’re just gonna see the fighting scars and assume he’s gonna snap and maul a little kid or something, and they’re gonna put him down. They're not going to adopt him out to a respectable family in the suburbs.” Frank regarded the drunken hordes below them, including one especially inebriated young man professing his love for everyone. “And if he is alive, he deserves better than that,” he said, gesturing downwards.

“There are no-kill shelters and shelters that rehabilitate fighting dogs,” Matt countered, not unreasonably. “Maybe he ended up in one of those.”

“Still holding onto that Santa Claus hope, eh Red?” 

“Acknowledging the possibility of a good outcome isn’t delusional, Frank.” They both watched as a woman wearing a headband with shamrock antennae on springs decided that being upright was overrated, grasped at her companion’s shirt, and popped all the buttons off while tearing it open. “But you’re right,” he continued, balancing amusement and revulsion. “He deserves better than that. We all do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll probably be at least a week before the next update, as real life is about to come crashing down for a few days.


	8. Good Friday - Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What immortal hand or eye  
> Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
> 
> In which Frank quotes poetry, Matt considers his faith, and they both eat sushi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me the entire way. It didn’t turn out how I started it, but I think (hope) it’ll stand. Updates should be more regular now, though probably not daily.

“Why’d you stop me? On the boat.”

“Hm?” Frank looked up from his nigiri. It was Good Friday. Matt was abstaining from meat on Fridays (how adorable) and he’d be damned (though he probably was anyway) if he was going to get his protein from tofu or beans or some shit. Sushi seemed like a good compromise. Fish was traditional and didn’t count as meat for some stupid reason. It wasn’t greasy fried cod served up by the local Knights of Columbus, but at least it tasted really good. He had acquired a taste for it while stationed in Okinawa and figured springing for some rolls was a justifiable indulgence, considering the $20k in non-sequential bills he’d lifted from some dealers and taken as spoils of war. 

“When we were going after the Blacksmith,” Matt continued. “I conceded that my way wasn’t working and that maybe your way was what it would take. You won. Why’d you stop me?”

Frank considered Matt. He was clearly intelligent, a hard worker, he had the sort of self-discipline that would have delighted his old drill sergeant and would’ve made him a damn fine Marine, if not for the whole blindness thing. He comported himself as an adult most of the time, and yet in some ways he was still so young. “Why’d you cross yourself like a scared little boy afraid for his soul after suggesting it?” Frank said at length.

Matt’s lips twitched in a sad little smile, and his head inclined ever-so-slightly. 

“Why are we eating fish instead of real meat?” Frank continued. “You’re a smart boy. You’ll figure it out.”

“Actually, I’m a little surprised you’re not trying to tempt me with a burger or something,” Matt responded affably. 

“Of the two of us, which one is dressed like the tempter?” Frank retorted, gesturing vaguely at Matt’s costume. “And really? Dressing as the devil while Christ is in Hell?” he added in mock disapproval.

“He’ll rise again. Give him a couple of days,” Matt said with a slight grin. 

“You believe that?” Frank asked, not challenging, mostly curious. It wasn’t that he thought Matt didn’t believe it, or that it was stupid to believe, hell, he still kinda believed it himself, but he wanted to press Matt on it a bit. 

Matt took a bite to pause. “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

Frank arched his eyebrows. “Suppose? For all your moral certainty and soap boxing, I’d figure you’d more than suppose.”

Matt sighed. “I’ve… seen things,” he said at length.

“Yeah, haven’t we all,” Frank snorted.

“No, I mean things that shouldn’t be. That night, when you covered for me on the rooftop, with the ninjas. It's a group called The Hand. The… Head ninja. His name is Nobu. I have it on good authority that he’s lived three lifetimes. Now, I know how that sounds, but I fought him last year. I watched him immolate, and yet there he was. I threw him down from a height that should’ve killed him, or at least severely incapacitated him, and he got back up again, in fighting trim.”

Frank stared at him, wondering if he’d taken one too many to the head, or if he was just shitting him. Matt looked both stricken and deadly serious. “No shit,” Frank pronounced after a moment. “I guess that’s why you were okay with me using lethal force, if they’re just gonna pop back up again.”

“I don’t know if all of them can do it, or just Nobu, or how it works. I don’t even really believe it, but I saw it, so I guess I have to.”

“Yeah, I can see why you suppose, then.” Frank ate silently for a few moments. “Why aren’t you a disciple of The Hand, then? I mean, Jesus only pulled that trick off once.” He knew he was being an ass, but figured that irreverence didn’t even register on his list of transgressions. He was also genuinely curious how Matt’s faith had survived something like that.

Matt paused. “We live in a world where aliens pour out of space holes in the sky. Thor, actual Thor from Norse eddas and sagas, used the Chrysler building as a giant lightning rod. The machines tried to rise up and kill us all. I guess undead ninjas, or ninjas who won’t stay dead, aren’t so far-fetched.” Frank though Matt sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as him. “And comparing the legacies, the Hand worship a demon and serve only themselves. It’s the opposite of Christianity.” Here he paused, hesitant to speak so personally. “And my religion has effected change in my life. For the better.”

Frank cocked his head to one side, satisfied with the answer he’d been expecting, more or less. “That,” he started matter-of-factly, “is why I tossed you in the drink. You said there was something broken in me, and maybe there is. Maybe there is in you, too, but not that. You haven’t crossed that line. I meant it when I said you can’t come back from it. You can go on from it, but you can’t get back to where you were. Now me, I do what I do because I have to. It’s who I am. It’s how I’m made. You’re not me, and you shouldn’t be.”

Matt sat quietly for a moment. “Thanks,” he said softly and sincerely, meaning both the compliment and the save on the boat. Frank jerked his head in a tiny nod of acknowledgment. “You really think this is who you are now?”

Frank stretched his legs in front of him and tipped his head back against the wall of the roof. 

“‘Did he smile his work to see?  
Did he who made the Lamb make me?’”

Frank turned to Matt. “You know that one?”

Matt shook his head. 

“The Tyger. William Blake. He was my favorite growing up.

“'Tyger, Tyger, burning bright  
In the forests of the night:  
What immortal hand or eye,  
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?'

“Now, I stand by what I said when I said I thought God was a sadistic fuck, especially if he put in me… whatever it is that made killing so easy, that made civilized living with the only goodness in my life so goddamn hard. And then he took that. He pulled the rug out from under me. Not on the plane. At least then it’d be me and not them. No, he did it later, when I thought everything was gonna be okay, that the worst was over. And then I died, and I couldn’t even stay dead.” Frank chuffed out a mirthless laugh. 

“‘Every Night & every Morn  
Some to Misery are Born.  
Every Morn & every Night  
Some are Born to sweet delight.  
Some are Born to sweet delight,  
Some are Born to Endless Night.’”

“…The Doors?” Matt guessed.

Frank rolled his eyes. “Blake again. Auguries of Innocence.”

He continued: 

“'What the hammer? What the chain,  
In what furnace was my brain?  
What the anvil? What dread grasp  
Dare its deadly terrors grasp?'

“The Tyger, again. God might’ve put me together wrong, or for some awful purpose, but it was another Blacksmith who twisted the sinews of my heart."

“You think you were created, _born_ , to be damned,” Matt said, taken aback. “Wasn’t Jansenism condemned as heretical?” he added, with a bit more lightness in his tone. 

“As I said, I am what I am, and I can’t be any other. So I’ll take what I have and use it. Ultimately nothing that I do matters. I’ll fight because it’s my nature to fight. Live by the sword…” he trailed off with a shrug.

Matt regarded him. He thought back to all the people whose presence or absence in his life had shaped him. The brief time he had with his father. The void left by his mother. The hope of love Stick had given him, only to cruelly yank it away. Elektra, and her fire that had burned so intensely. Foggy, his rock. Karen, with her light and tenacity and will. Fr. Lantom was right. Each person was a world webbing out to touch others. He shook his head “Everything we do matters,” he finally said quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again with chapters getting away from me and running headlong into religion and angst.
> 
> The Knights of Columbus are a Catholic men’s group. Them doing fish frys on Fridays is kind of typical. 
> 
> Frank refers to the Harrowing of Hell. Tradition (theology?) holds that Christ liberated the righteous who died before him by descending to the underworld after his death (He descended into Hell – Apostle’s creed), before the resurrection. I could get into a lot more on this, but I’ll avoid that for everyone’s sake. 
> 
> Frank cites the poems correctly. The Doors do indeed use four of those lines in the song “The End.” All punctuation and capitalization is Blake’s. Frank changes a couple of pronouns. [Here](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43687) is a link to the entire poem. 
> 
> Jansenism, put shortly, was a heretical movement in 17th century Catholicism that adhered to a Calvinist sort of predestination. Matt knows of this because he was raised by nuns. Frank knows of this because he put enough thought into becoming a priest to spend some time in seminary. 
> 
> “Live by the sword…” Mt. 26:52


	9. Let's talk about sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movies, sex, movies with sex. 
> 
> "I don’t need to see sex to know how it works. Or to get any ideas,” he continued before Frank could interject anything. “Pretty sure there’s nothing new under the sun as far as that goes, and people were having sex long before movies were invented.”
> 
> “They probably just drew cave pictures of people fucking,” Frank added.

Matt sighed. “I don’t need to see sex to know how it works. I think that part is instinctual.” 

How he got to this point, where he’d be talking about stupid college sex and porn with New York’s deadliest man, he didn’t quite know. Sure, he’d been meeting with Frank for a few weeks now, sharing coffee, sometimes food. They talked, at least in part because neither had many people to really talk to. Talking about sex with a Frank Castle, however, was a new level of absurd and, considering his life, that was saying something. 

The evening had started innocently enough; Matt brought a pair of coffees, one black for Frank, one halfway to being a latte for himself. Frank made a crack about Matt having an Irish coffee now that Lent was over, even though they both knew neither would drink alcohol while patrolling, regardless of how quiet the night. But that had led to Matt saying how, as a boy, he thought vodka martinis were the coolest thing because of James Bond. Frank then said he once asked his family why they didn’t drink champagne cocktails like the Corleones in The Godfather (his very much not Cosa Nostra father did not appreciate that). This led to a whole discussion of movies, or more precisely, what movies Matt had missed. 

The last movie Matt saw before the accident was Return of the Jedi. He and his father had been working through the trilogy, and they finished Jedi about a week before his father’s final fight. After that, he’d listened to many movies over the years, but it wasn’t really the same. Sometimes someone would narrate for him though, and he suspected that in some cases Foggy’s narration improved the movie. Frank had gone through a list of what Matt suspected were either his or his children’s favorites. (–Toy Story? –Yeah, at the orphanage. –The Lion King? –Same. –Pulp Fiction? –College. I asked Foggy what was in the suit case and he told me I missed the point of the movie. –There Will Be Blood? –Foggy drank my milkshake. –The Matrix? –I have dodged bullets. –The new Star Wars? –Foggy expressly forbade me from watching those). 

At some point, it smacked Frank upside the head that Matt had probably never seen a porno, and felt that Matt had thus been deprived of a coming of age ritual due to all young men, which left Matt defending his ability to copulate.

“I listened to one in college,” he said with a shrug. “They were pretty scarce in a Catholic orphanage, and the sisters probably would have ended me if I somehow managed to get one. I don’t really see the point. If I’m going to listen to people have sex, I can do that anywhere in the city at pretty much any time. But I reiterate, I don’t need to see sex to know how it works. _Or_ to get any ideas,” he continued before Frank could interject anything. “Pretty sure there’s nothing new under the sun as far as that goes, and people were having sex long before movies were invented.”

“They probably just drew cave pictures of people fucking,” Frank added. 

Matt chuckled a little, chin tipping up in a little tic of acknowledgment. “Probably.” He grinned mischievously. “I was also able to play the ‘I’ve never seen that, describe it to me,’ card with girls.” He paused a moment to recall fondly a few early conquests.

“That worked for you?” Frank asked, a little amused.

“It worked,” Matt said, a twinkle still in his eye. “Not nearly as well as Foggy seems to think it worked, but I did alright for myself.” He sipped at his coffee. “What about you? Girl in every port of call?”

“I’m a Marine, Red, not a fucking sailor.” Matt’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile for having successfully needled Frank.

“I did alright,” he acknowledged. “When I had the time. But there were long stretches- basic training, active warzone, convalescing, where it wasn’t an option.” He shrugged. “That’s what porn’s for. Or in your case, listening to your neighbors fuck. Then I met Maria, and she got pregnant…” he trailed off, because for him, it really was the end of that story. 

Matt nodded. 

“Honestly,” Matt started, trying to veer off of topics that would put Frank under a storm cloud, “the most awkward part of awkward college sex was trying to navigate condoms entirely by feel, with no prior knowledge.”

Frank snorted. “I’m guessing the nuns weren’t too forthcoming with that information.”

“You could say that,” replied Matt with a grin.

“So you didn’t get too fucked up, getting all your sex ed from a bunch of nuns?”

“They brought in an actual MD for that talk, but still, it was all clinical and there wasn’t really any talk of contraception beyond not having sex. But you know, an ounce of prevention, well it sure beats the pound of cure in this case.”

Frank gave him an even look. “You would do that?” 

“It wouldn’t really be my choice to make. But I’m in no position to support a child, to give a child a stable home.”

“Or you could fucking man up and be a father and a husband.”

It dawned on Matt that this wasn’t a purely academic discussion for Frank. “Oh." He wasn't sure what else to say. "I’m sorry.” 

“What are you sorry about? I had two beautiful children, and don’t you think for a goddamn minute that I regret any part of that.” He paused for a long moment.

“Maria wanted to get an abortion.”

Matt looked up, unsure of what to say.

“Back when she first got pregnant,” he continued. “We had only been dating a couple of months. I had just dropped out of the seminary and was kinda drifting. She didn’t expect me to settle down with her, and she thought she was too young to have a kid, thought there was too much left that she still wanted to do. I told her I’d take care of her and our child for the rest of our lives. I kept that promise. I kept it, up until that last day.

“I loved Maria. I loved her so goddamned much, but we fought. God, did we fight. Fiery Italian temperaments, or something,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “Not like you dour Irish bastards, holding it all in and just drowning your sorrows. We, we let it all out. But we knew where to cut, and we did. I remember this one fight, it wasn’t even about anything, or at least not whatever started it all off. She resented being tied down so young. I shot back that she wanted to kill our baby so she could sow her wild oats.” 

His circumstances didn’t excuse his actions, but Matt’s compassion for the man in front of him was renewed when he was reminded that Frank seemed to have known primarily violence and pain. 

“Oh, we made up,” Frank continued. “We always made up. I wrote her a love letter groveling for forgiveness, quoted some poetry. We got a babysitter, and I took her to nearby park with some wine and bread.”

“Your own private communion.”

Frank sighed. Red’s knowledge of poetry was somewhere in the neighborhood of abysmal. “The Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam. I swear to fucking God, Red…”

He lacked any heat in his words, though, and both men sat for a time, remembering past loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank alludes to “The Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam,” specifically the very famous quatrain:
> 
> “A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,  
> A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou  
> Beside me singing in the Wilderness—  
> Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!"


	10. Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let the dead bury the dead?”
> 
> Frank nodded stiffly. “The living got enough to worry about. The dead aren’t gonna be bothered by what we do or don’t do.”

“I feel like we should have a bottle of scotch up here.”

Matt and Frank were sitting on top of a residential building, looking out towards the Hudson. It was a quiet night, not too late, but late enough to be dark. Frank had brought a couple of coffees from the nearest coffee shop that was open. 

“Why’s that?” Frank asked, sipping at his joyless black coffee. Matt briefly wondered if Frank genuinely enjoyed his coffee bitter and dark, or if it was some sort of self-imposed penance. 

“They’re having a wake in an apartment on the fourth floor,” he said nodding in the general direction of the sounds only he could hear. “It was an old man, so it’s sad, but expected. And they’re having fun. They’re drinking and telling stories. Only a little bit of crying.” Matt paused to sip at his latte. He knew Frank was drinking his black, and was more touched than perhaps he should have been that he’d thought to get Matt something he knew he’d enjoy. “I probably already know the answer to this, but do you ever think of the wake of tragedy you leave behind your capital punishment spree? All the grieving, the funerals?”

“I don’t, and it’s not my problem. But now that you mention it, maybe these politicians and talking heads should celebrate me instead of condemning me. I’m tough on crime. I keep the morticians busy. I’m a job creator,” he smirked, but quickly fell solemn. “You have an old-fashioned wake for your dad?” he said at length.

“No. We had a wake, but not like with the body laid out in the front room and wailing and keening and all that. My family’s been here for awhile. I’m fourth generation. My grandma had more of the traditions, but she died before my dad did. But there was a wake.” Matt was unfocused, just remembering. “Our neighbors took me in for a couple of nights, until the funeral. Men from Fogwell’s, the gym where my dad trained, came over. The asshole who had him killed- I didn’t find out it was him until years later- he came and offered his condolences to me personally, told me all about how tragic it was and how sorry he was for me, and how my dad was a good man and deserved better,” Matt said bitterly. “He was shot in the head, so it was a closed casket. The last time I- I got to touch my father was when he lay dead in an alley.

“It’s funny what you remember. What the strongest memories are. It was all a flurry. I think some people from the church helped make sure all his accounts were settled. I never asked. I just remember this one absurd thought so clearly. At one point during the wake I walked in, and a bunch of people were saying the rosary, and I just thought ‘this is absurd. My dad never said the rosary. Why are they doing that?’”

“It’s customary,” Frank interjected matter-of-factly, but not unkindly. “You okay with it now?”

“As okay as I’m going to be, I think. The pain isn’t as acute, and I’d give anything to have him back, but I survived.” He paused, considering his life’s work up to that point, and wondering, no, knowing, what his dad would think of his nighttime activities. “I got a law degree, like he would’ve wanted,” he ended, lying by omission.

“You go to the funeral?”

“Yeah. St. Matthew’s. Same church I go to now. It was nice,” he shrugged. “I mean, as far as funerals go. The priest said some nice words about my dad, and then it was over. One of the sisters took me back to our apartment to pack some bags, and then she took me to the orphanage.”

Frank nodded sharply. “I lost my dad, too. Shortly before I enlisted. He was a Marine, too. Reason I joined up.”

“He’d be proud.”

“Jesus fuck, Red, are you _trying_ to get me to belt you in the teeth?”

“I meant of your service,” he responded, equal measures patience and exasperation.

“The fuck you know about my service,” Frank snapped back, but without heat. “You’re right. The pain fades, but it never goes away. And I thought I knew what pain was, losing both my parents before they could know their grandkids, but losing my kids…”

“I’m sorry,” said Matt softly and genuinely, knowing full well that any words he could supply would be woefully inadequate. 

“You’re the Ivy League educated lawyer. You probably ran laps around me on the SAT. If you’re so smart, answer this question. You’re an orphan because you lost both your parents. I’m a widower because my wife died. You tell me, what the fuck do you call someone who loses their children? There’s no word because that shouldn’t happen.”

Matt bowed his head, figuring that mentioning Rachel weeping for her children or a choice passage from the gospel of John, or pointing out how many parents Frank had deprived of children would only serve to anger the man before him. 

“I didn’t get to go.”

“To your dad’s funeral?”

“To my family’s.”

Matt looked stricken and turned away, feeling it almost impolite to intrude on Frank’s grief. “I’m sorry.”

Frank shrugged, pretending or maybe making it so that it didn’t matter. “I was in the hospital for a couple of days, I guess, and then I died, and… was confused… and fell off the grid. Maria’s sister took care of the arrangements, I think. 

“Do you know where they’re buried?” Matt asked hesitantly.

Frank ducked his head. “Yeah.”

“…Have you been to-“

“No. And I’m not gonna, either. That’s not my family in the ground. That’s rotting meat. My family’s gone. Funerals, burial, all that shit’s for the living.”

“All that _shit_ ,” Matt countered, “is to help you remember them, to honor their memories. Wouldn’t they like that you treat them with care, keep them in your heart?”

“I don’t need to go and stand next to their remains to do that. 

“Let the dead bury the dead?”

Frank nodded stiffly. “The living got enough to worry about. The dead aren’t gonna be bothered by what we do or don’t do.”

“So you punish the wicked to protect the innocent here and now,” Matt stated.

“Same as you do, Red.”

Matt shifted the half attention he was paying to the wake back to the city in general, just listening as he often did. He stilled and cocked his head, and gave the object of his interest his full attention. “Karen,” he breathed. “She’s in trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To find out what Matt and Karen got up to, check out part 3 in the series, [Where do we go from here?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6731173)
> 
> Not sure Matt’s family’s immigration history. Taking a stab that his great-grandparents were the immigrants, and by American reckoning, that makes him fourth generation. 
> 
> I’m assuming Frank looked like he was going to die for a couple of days, and then the DA got the shady DNR. It’s also possible that he did attend but doesn’t remember, because as he said, “It goes in and out.” He said he never went back to his house, but the nurse said he demanded to be taken home, to the correct address. Frank is an unreliable narrator regarding things immediately preceding and following the shooting.


	11. Semper Fidelis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our vigilantes realize that they must be true to their natures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly after the Matt and Karen's date. If you want to read what they talked about and got up to, check out [Where do we go from here?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6731173)

Matt landed on a rooftop and padded over silently to Frank, who had tucked himself into the shadows. True spring was upon them, and they no longer needed to keep moving to keep warm while patrolling. 

“Karen alright?” Frank called out, louder than he needed to be, and with an edge to his voice. 

“Hi to you, too,” Matt responded. Frank moved out of the shadows upon Matt’s arrival. 

“Brought you some Mexican. Heard you like that South American food.” Frank nudged a bag of tacos at Matt, who extracted a pair that he rightly guessed contained carne asada. 

“Mexico is in Central America,” Matt corrected. “And what makes you think I like South American food?”

Frank sniffed derisively. “Maybe you should be a bit more aware of your surroundings while you’re on dates.”

“You heard me mention El Salvadoran food?” Matt deduced. “You were following us? And El Salvador is in Central America, too,” he tacked on, because he couldn’t resist the urge to be a little pedantic. 

“I wasn’t following you.”

“Were you following _her_?” Matt demanded.

“I look out for her.” Frank unwrapped a taco, unwilling to get pulled into Matt’s near-hysteria, and enjoying a little that he could still provoke the devil when he wanted.

“Do you have her bugged or something? I didn’t notice you.”

“I know how to play secret squirrel, Red. As for why you didn’t notice me, maybe you were too preoccupied with something else,” Frank said in a slightly taunting voice, leaving the implications hanging. 

Matt tried to remain irate, but his face started to twist into a suppressed smile. “Secret squirrel? I know I’ve been blind a long time, but I remember what a squirrel looks like, and can’t believe you’d deign to compare yourself to a rat with a fluffy tail.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Intelligence. Covert ops. She made herself some powerful enemies. I watch her to make sure no one else is.”

Satisfied that Frank wasn’t kibitzing on his date or love life, Matt calmed down. “Ah, it’s a Marines thing.”

Frank sniffed. “Yeah, it’s a Marines thing.” 

They ate in silence for awhile. 

“Why’d you join up?” Matt finally asked, 

Frank grabbed a chili verde taco. “Did you ever play Cap and Howling Commandos as a boy?” 

“Sure,” Matt replied. “Before the accident, that is. I never got to be Cap, though. I usually had to be Dum Dum or Bucky, and once, Peggy Carter.”

Frank laughed. “I was usually Bucky, but sometimes I’d get to be Cap,” Frank said. “Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers, all those things boys play. It was a good game. All the boys, hell, half the girls played it. Got to be heroes and badasses in a war where there was a clear good guy and bad guy, where it was all black and white. Allies good, Nazi and Hydra bad. But that was our grandparents’ war. My father, though, he was a Marine in Vietnam. He had a “good Vietnam,” or as good as Vietnam could be for anyone, but he still fought in a clusterfuck of a war with no resolution, where good men were just put into a war machine meat grinder. I grew up playing Cap and Howling Commandos with the kids at school during recess, and had that image of the golden boy and his team fighting for truth and justice and apple pie, and had to contrast that with what I got from my dad. I wanted to be like Cap. I thought I _could_ be like Cap. Coming out of high school, I wasn’t really interested in going to college, and I didn’t want to work for minimum wage flipping burgers, so I joined up.” He sat in thoughtful silence for a moment.

“I found a sense of purpose and belonging in the Marines. I was good at it.”

“Did you find the Just war, the black and white, good and evil war Cap had?” Matt asked, keeping a neutral voice.

Frank paused a long moment and finished his taco before replying. “I found what I was looking for. I just didn’t know what that was before I enlisted. I served my first tour in Iraq. The things I thought would be hard, would be scary, weren’t. My ma died during my first tour. That was the hardest thing. But after she was gone, I had nothing tying me to anything anymore, so I tied myself to the military. The second tour was easier than the first. At the time, that scared me. Not… what I did, but that I wasn’t bothered by what I did. By the time I was in Kandahar, though, I knew where I was meant to be.” He spoke with a certain sense of clarity and peace, and yet also resignation and acceptance. When he ran to the seminary, he was trying to escape something laid out clearly during his first two tours, but failing there and returning to the Marines, he found that maybe he was supposed to embrace that part of himself. Kandahar confirmed those suspicions and fears. 

In their very awkward “I’m Daredevil and coming clean” conversation, Karen had told Matt what she knew of Frank’s story. They both knew that something had happened in Kandahar, which had seemingly had a defining moment on Frank’s life, but neither knew exactly what happened. “What happened there?” asked Matt, softly.

“I had a moment of clarity,” Frank responded at length. “Anything else you don’t need to know, or is classified,” he said, dismissing the topic. 

“Karen’s good,” Matt said after a long silence, tactfully changing the topic by telling Frank what he really wanted to know. 

Frank looked up. 

“She’s good. She’s doing really well. She likes her job. She’s taking care of herself. Hell, you saw her disarm that mugger. She did well. Said she’s taking a self-defense class and working on a piece about superheroes and everyday heroes.” Matt paused. “Did you teach her that? How to take a gun from someone?”

“No. Not surprised she can handle herself, though.” Both men were silent for moment. “You two dating?”

“We went on a date.” Matt shook his head, trying to figure out his own thoughts on his practically non-existent love life. “The girl on the roof, that night, with the ninjas. Her name was Elektra.”

Frank chuffed a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously?”

“That’s what everybody called her. I mean, maybe it wasn’t her given name…”

“What’s that make you, Orestes?”

“No-o, because that would make Stick Agamemnon, and let’s just not go there.” He looked discomfited by the thought.

“Stick?” 

“He trained us both. Long story. Also probably not his given name,” Matt said as an afterthought. “Anyway, Elektra. You saw her. She died.” Matt was silent for a time. “She was my first love.”

“Sorry,” Frank grunted in response.

“Me, too,” Matt replied softly. “It wasn’t a good relationship. Never was. I mean, it felt great at the time, but it wasn’t good. We appealed to all the most destructive parts of each other, and if it had gone on much longer, we would’ve turned the town upside down just for the fun of it. We thought we were both going to die on that rooftop, but we were going to go out swinging. Right before it, we had an escape fantasy; if we lived, we’d hang it all up and live the good life in some exotic European city. I lived because she threw herself between Nobu and me, and because you showed up and had my back. She died, though. She died, and I buried her. I loved her, and now she’s gone.” Matt sat with his thoughts for a bit, mentally composing himself again. He’d allowed himself to grieve deeply immediately after she died, and for as long as he needed. What hurt most was that Elektra had chosen to tread the path of the righteous, to ignore the darkness that lie within her, and all she got in return was a hero’s death. After a couple of weeks of screaming, punching brick walls (not his smartest move), sleeping and eating whenever the hell he wanted, the acute pain that made him feel like he needed to tear himself open and turn himself inside out settled into a warm, dull pain.

“But Karen knows now. She’s more pragmatic than idealistic. She understands that I can’t give up my daytime or nighttime activities. She’s willing to see if we can actually have a relationship. And I think I’m going to try.”

Frank experienced a quick succession of emotions. First, envy that Matt and Karen were both still able to feel deeply and passionately enough to have such a relationship. Then, sadness that he’d never have that again, and, truth be told, also that Karen had really cut him out of her life. Finally, relief that Karen had really cut him out of her life, but for her sake. True to his nature, however, he just grunted out a stoic “good,” and considered the matter closed. 

“She asked after you.” 

Frank’s eyes closed briefly. “Yeah? What’d you say?” 

Matt tilted his head and said neutrally, “I told her the truth.”

“S’that so?” was his only response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm being deliberately vague with the details of Frank's service. Quick and dirty timeline: Enlist out of high school, two tours in Iraq, thought maybe he'd get out of the military, so took the GI bill and went to college, did a semester or so in seminary, and returned to the Marines for Officer school, and then served in Afghanistan. 
> 
> There is a comics basis for Frank joining the military because of respect for Cap. He really does respect him, to the point where he won't raise a hand against him. 
> 
> Not sure if I should admit this, but I don't know precisely what went down in Kandahar, even for this story. I'm working off the assumption that it's something to the effect of what happened in the Valley Forge arc of the Punisher Max series, written by Garth Ennis. Well worth the read if you have some spare money.


	12. No devil is an island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our vigilantes discuss some current events and plan for their futures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to CA:CW. Nothing you wouldn’t get from watching the trailers or CA:WS. 
> 
> They mention The Sokovia Accords (Enhanced Individual registration), and Matt considers how this might affect him. 
> 
> I’m assuming that cell phone footage, the SHIELD data dump Natasha did in Winter Soldier, and the fact that two may keep a secret if one is dead have led to rumors that there is in fact a Winter Soldier, and that he might be Cap’s childhood friend and erstwhile team sergeant. 
> 
> I reiterate; nothing you wouldn’t get from the trailers or CA:WS.

Matt approached Frank on a rooftop on a pleasant spring evening with a pair of sandwiches and a couple of coffee sodas. They greeted each other with their by now customary “Red” “Frank” salutations and set to demolishing some pastrami on rye. 

“Surprised you’re out tonight, counselor,” Frank said after a long silence in which each man devoured a good portion of their sandwiches.

“Why’s that?” Matt looked up from his sandwich, wiping some mustard from his chin. 

“The Sokovia Accords. The Enhanced Individuals registration.” Frank took a swig of his coffee soda and looked at the bottle like it had said something obscene about his mother. “You know, it might be criminal to do this to coffee. Is there any statue on the books about that?”

Matt grinned. “Crimes against taste are hard to legislate against. And Sokovia pertains to enhanced individuals. Super soldiers, Norse gods, flying girls who shoot red things out of their hands, people with flying mech suits… Vision, whatever he is.”

Frank shook his head. “Do you even know when you’re lying anymore? You know, lying by omission is still lying. That Russian spy, the Black Widow. Hawkeye, the archer. Sam Wilson was pararescue. He might be badass, as much as I hate to give credit to the Air Force, but that doesn’t make him enhanced.”

“Falcon can fly. That makes him as enhanced as Iron man,” Matt interjected.

“He can’t shoot lasers out of his hands,” Frank countered.

“Point,” Matt conceded. 

“Anyway,” Frank continued, “they’re no more enhanced than you. Maybe less so.” Matt started to protest. “No, you don’t get to play coy there. Your hearing alone is better than anyone’s should be. Add in your weird ‘sight without sight’ and the ability to track shit like a bloodhound, like hell you’re not enhanced.”

Matt didn’t protest, but didn’t acknowledge the truth, either. He responded evenly, “what I do is already outside the bounds of the law. If I were caught, at the very least, I’d be disbarred. I’d likely be arrested for multiple counts of assault and battery, breaking and entering, and possibly manslaughter for Nobu, though since he’s walking around, it might be hard to prove that one. Besides, the Accords were specifically referring to international peacekeeping, not to citizen’s arrest vigilantism. So, no. I’m not particularly worried about that. Why, are you worried for me? If so, I’m touched,” he finished with equal parts sarcasm and sincerity.

“Just wondering what your expert opinion on all this is. You’re standing with Captain America and not Iron man, then?”

“I suppose I am. And you? I don’t suppose you’re coming down on the side of law and order.”

“I ain’t registering with anyone. And besides, I already made my allegiance to Cap clear. And now that Barnes is back, too… Team sniper for the Howling Commandos. He’s got a place of respect with every sniper I knew.”

“So, you wouldn’t punish Barnes?” Matt asked, with a note of disdain on the word punish. As a general rule, Matt preferred to keep execution off the list of possible punishments when dealing with, well, everyone.

“No I would not punish Barnes. He’s the longest-held POW. He was tortured, broken, and brainwashed, and he cannot be held accountable for what he was forced to do by enemy combatants.” Frank spoke with the gut-deep certainty, a certainty that was almost beyond reason, that he reserved for his judgments pronounced on those who passed through his rifle sight. “Why, you telling me that you’d see him executed, Mr. Bleeding Heart lawyer?”

Matt shook his head. “I’d see his case more like Patty Hearst. Abducted, tortured, forced to comply under duress. No agency.” 

Frank looked at Matt, a little offended and disbelieving. “Patty Hearst was convicted. You saying that Barnes should be convicted?”

“No, I hope that we’ve all learned our lessons from that case. And she was pardoned eventually.”

“She was pardoned by a president. Presidential pardons are about as common as unicorns,” Frank said. 

“If even half the rumors about what he did and what he became are true, then Barnes is about as common as a unicorn,” Matt replied. “It’s an exceptional case. It would merit exceptional consideration,” Matt continued more seriously. “I’d hope that any reasonable party would see that he lacked agency and was a prisoner of war, and failing that or a pardon, I don’t think Captain America would stand to lose his sergeant again.”

“And if they pressed you on it,” Frank continued, not willing to let the matter drop, “what would you do? Register? Go off the reservation, like Cap? Quit and just be a lawyer?”

“That’s not going to be an issue. They won’t find me out.”

Frank considered the man before him. He knew he had a few years on Matt, and between the age difference and the hard lessons he’d learned in the military, in active warzones, in marriage, and in parenthood, he’d had to mature in different ways, ways that life hadn’t yet been demanded of Matt. Frank was pretty sure Matt didn’t consider himself invincible; he got the shit kicked out of him too much for that. He also didn’t think Matt thought himself immortal, as so many young men did. No, Matt had seen too much death to realize that it might hit him sooner rather than later. But he did lack the perspective of age, and in short, just behaved as many young men did, thinking that the worst (and Frank was pretty sure that being found out would be worse to Matt than being beaten or killed) simply couldn’t happen to him. “Shit, Red, I know your identity. Foggy knows, Karen knows, your damn priest knows.”

“He’s sworn to secrecy,” Matt interjected.

“All it takes is one slip of the tongue,” Frank continued, “or a text sent to the wrong person and your secret will be out there. Then what do you do?” 

“I guess I fight until I can’t keep fighting anymore.”

Frank shook his head. “That’s not how your story should end. That’s mine. Barring some freak act of God, where a meteorite falls on my head, or another space hole opens up over midtown, I know I'll probably die in the saddle. You shouldn’t, though. No man is an island, Red. You’re right. The city needs you. You accused me of having pyrrhic victories, well, motes and beams, Red. Don’t throw away all that you have on one battle. Your strength is in the long-term. Play your hand so that you can see it through.”

Matt smiled a little. He recalled Fr. Lantom once telling him that a lot of people weren’t afraid of dying so much as truly living their lives, and Frank’s words reminded him of that, and he told him as much. 

Frank made a grudging noise of acknowledgment and tried to pretend he didn’t care and wasn’t a little flattered that Matt compared him favorably to his respected priest. “Maybe you should listen to him,” was his only response.

“Maybe I should,” Matt echoed. He reflected on the fact that Frank, in addition to Fr. Lantom, Karen, Foggy, and even Claire, cared enough to try to keep him on the path of the righteous. He was both touched and saddened by the fact that Frank would still reach out to him and keep him from being his own worst enemy, when Frank personally had no one to fulfill such a role. Finally, he had to consider that maybe Foggy acted as he did not because he thought he knew better than Matt (though he probably did think that), but because he loved him and was afraid for his friend. “Maybe I should,” he repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coffee soda is a thing. I haven’t had it, as I think coffee invariably tastes like ash. 
> 
> “Motes and beams,” Mt 7:1-5, King James Version because motes and beams is more poetic than specks and logs.
> 
> “No man is an island,” John Donne. A rather ironic bit for Frank to quote, it talks about how the death of any one person affects everyone because all mankind is one.


	13. Crime and Punishment – The Ballad of Ryker’s Gaol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our vigilantes discuss the US penal system, justice, a certain bald man, and how they all intersect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the title.

Because of the sudden spotlight on superheroes and enhanced individuals, vigilantism died down a bit, until the news cycle found the latest celebrity behaving badly to fixate on instead. The small-time players, that is, the ones who studiously avoided getting their names in international news, still worked to protect their turfs and ensure innocent bystanders didn’t get hurt by the dark underbelly of the city, but patrolling didn’t happen as much or as visibly. So, when Frank was on stakeout one night, he didn’t expect Daredevil to show up. He had been watching the comings and goings at a store that sold mostly tourist junk and tchotchkes, but was way too far off the beaten path for tourists and didn’t seem to move much merchandise. He was holed up with a rifle scope for spotting and a thermos of coffee for pleasure, and if Red hadn’t shown up it would’ve been okay, as there were mooks to watch instead. But he was rewarded for his lack of heavy weaponry, and Red did show. It pleased Frank a little, though he tried to convince himself he wouldn’t have cared either way. 

“Frank,” Matt said in greeting as he lobbed a nectarine at him.

“Red,” Frank responded, offering the second part of their call-and-response greeting. He grabbed the nectarine out of the air easily and cocked one eyebrow at Matt. “Fruit?” was his monosyllabic response.

“Fruit,” Matt confirmed, a little amused. “You should eat more fresh fruit. It’s good for you,” he said playfully. “I wasn’t planning on going out tonight, but I heard you up here and didn’t have time to grab anything more,” he said, offering more explanation for the unorthodox choice of refreshments. 

“Coffee?” Frank asked, holding out his thermos. Matt raised a hand to decline. “So you’re sitting at home and heard me from what, three, four blocks out?” Frank continued. “I know I’ve said it before, but that’s just creepy, man.”

“What makes you think I was at home?” Matt asked with false easiness. 

Frank gave him a “don’t play coy with me” look of mild exasperation. “Really? You’re gonna ask that?” Matt just faced him with a trace of a smile and took a bite of his own nectarine. Frank sighed as he realized Matt wasn’t going to say anything. “Okay. One. You’re in your devil suit. Two. You came on short notice. Body armor ain’t easy to get into, nor is it compact. Yours is sleek, but it’s still body armor, and you’re not wearing it under your civvies, and you’re not carrying it with you. Three, we don’t meet where you live, but you map out where we have met, you can guess what’s in the center.” He stopped, considering his case well-made. Then, he added, just to harass Matt a bit, “and I know who you are. Maybe I googled you.”

Matt looked a little discomfited, but refused to confirm Frank’s suspicions, and continued eating his nectarine. “Maybe it’s where I work. Or where I train,” he offered. The thought of Frank running background searches on him made him uneasy, but he also took Frank at his word when he said he didn’t care about who he was, and Matt trusted that even if he did look up the information, he wouldn’t use it against him. 

“You work out of Josie’s. I know where that is, and that’s not the center of your patrol route or our meetings. Maybe you’ve been coming from where you work out, but I doubt it because you’re not gonna try and tire yourself out before going out to patrol.” Frank took another bite of his nectarine, managing to even eat fruit in a menacing way. “Maybe you should put some effort into masking your patterns and protecting your identity. I said it before; if this is really important to you, being both a lawyer and a vigilante, be smart about it and protect it. You asked why I was watching Karen, and I told you it was because she made herself some powerful enemies. You have too. You might see to that.”

Matt nodded. “I keep tabs on the people after my head. The Hand are quiet right now. I think they’re regrouping, but it also gives me some time to prepare. Fisk is in Ryker’s, and most of the people who were working with him are dead or… gone.” Matt wasn’t quite sure what to make of Madame Gao, but he knew she could hit damn hard, and might be a foe as formidable as both Nobu and Fisk. He didn’t know if she was here or elsewhere, but she was also being quiet, and she was a problem that would hold.

“You know Fisk is gunning for you right?” Frank said through a mouthful of nectarine.

“I know,” Matt said matter-of-factly. 

“You still think killing him’s wrong? Now that you’ve seen that he’s controlling things from inside?”

Matt hesitated. Some dark corner of himself really wanted to see Fisk dead, both for personal and utilitarian reasons, but a larger part of himself told him that vigilante executions, even in Fisk’s case, were always wrong. “I will never intentionally kill him, but I will do my damnedest to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone ever again. The moment he crosses that line, or violates his parole in any way, I’ll turn him over to the police.” 

Frank sniffed. “You go ahead and do that, Red. But you’re gonna have to race me to him. I promised the fat fuck I’d end him next time I saw him, and I intend to keep that promise.”

Matt started to protest, but Frank cut him off.

“Yeah yeah, Red. I know what you’re gonna say. Sanctity of life, special snowflake with hope for redemption or some shit. But you’ve seen what he’s doing in there, and you know what he’s gonna do when he gets out. It’s gonna make his first run at King of Hell’s Kitchen look like child’s play. Let’s say he does it all again. Maybe he kills someone close to you. What’s it going to take for you to pull the trigger? So to speak.”

Matt paused for a few seconds to compose his thoughts. “Every religion, every code of morality, has a ‘hey, maybe you shouldn’t kill’ clause, and for good reason.”

“No, they all have a ‘hey, maybe you shouldn’t kill _certain people_ ’ clause,” Frank countered.

“Yes, there are provisions for self-defense, or soldiers in war-”

“This is self-defense,” Frank interrupted. “This is a fucking war.”

“You don’t get to decide what is and isn’t a war. We have governments and laws for a reason. Yes, they’re imperfect, but they prevent everyone from dictating their own codes of conduct. Without a social contract, it’d be anarchy.”

"It is fucking anarchy. Shit is falling apart, the center isn’t holding, and I have a pretty goddamned good idea of what rough beast it is that’s slouching towards Bethlehem.” Frank paused, and then continued in a lower voice, “maybe it ain’t a declared war according to the Hague, but the other parties involved sure as shit think it is. The Irish. The Italians. The Dogs of Hell. The Hand. I’m not killing innocents; I’m killing soldiers.”

Matt regarded him incredulously. “Can you honestly say that you’ve never killed an innocent bystander or a civilian? The amount of ammo you’ve discharged, the number of explosions you’ve set? No shrapnel hitting passersby, no stray bullets ricocheting?”

“You questioning my marksmanship skills, Red?” asked Frank, rounding on Matt in challenge.

“No,” said Matt as patiently as he could. “I’m saying that in the fray of a battle, things happen.”

“Yes, they do. Can _you_ honestly say you’ve never killed anyone? Sure, they might still be breathing when you’re through, but how many are a day later, or a week later? How many are paralyzed? How many have permanent brain damage that make them vegetables?”

Matt bowed his head slightly. The thought _had_ crossed his mind, but mostly he prayed that he’d never inflicted such grievous harm, and he always listened for signs of life when he was finished. “I don’t intend for the people I stop to die.”

“What, you think that makes all it okay? Because the goddamn law says it’s manslaughter instead of murder? Ain’t no difference if they end up dead all the same. Intentions don’t means shit. Results matter.”

“Both intentions and results matter,” Matt countered. “Yes, if you kill someone without intending, it’s not murder, it’s manslaughter, but it’s still a crime and it’s still wrong. It’s the difference between a mortal sin and a venial sin, if you will.”

Frank scoffed. “So what do you think we should do with scum that hurt other people? With Fisk?”

“Prison. Let them think about what they’ve done. Maybe they’ll reform.”

“Putting the penitent back in penitentiary, eh, Red?”

“It’s called the Department of Corrections for a reason.”

“Department of Corr…” Frank trailed off with a mirthless laugh. “Are you really that goddamn naïve? What sort of bullshit euphemism is that. Department of Corrections,” he said sarcastically. “Sounds like something out of fucking Orwell. The point of prison isn’t correction, it’s punishment. You think rehabilitation is happening in there? Fuck no! The inmates run the joint. The officers, the warden, they have exactly much power as the inmates let them have.” He chucked the nectarine pit across the rooftop on “exactly” for emphasis and shook his head with a mirthless laugh. “And how much power do you think that bald fuck lets them have?”

“I agree that some people need to be segregated from the rest of society, for society’s sake, and for their own,” Matt responded, somewhat dancing around the point. “If they can’t control themselves, and they can’t change, then it’s not merciful to leave them amongst innocents whom they can continue to hurt. That’s why life without the possibility of parole is a possible sentence. Justice must be done and must be seen to be done, but we don’t need to summarily execute people to have justice.”

“That doesn’t _work_ , Red! You got enough money, you can buy your way out of a conviction. Or, you arrange an escape. Or you get some bleeding heart judge or jury or parole board, and they’re back out here doing the same goddamn thing. You’ve seen it with Fisk, and you know what he’s gonna do the minute he’s out. The same goddamn thing he’s been doing. He’s going to go right back to raping your city and destroying the people in it. And you _know_ this happens, or you wouldn’t put on that suit.”

“Yes, I put on the suit to keep people from falling through the cracks. But I’m not doing it to punish people, I’m doing it to protect the people they would hurt,” said Matt, letting exasperation and anger get the better of him.

“You keep telling yourself that. You get off on the violence. It’s a rush for you. I can see it when you fight.”

“Maybe I enjoy it. But I sincerely do it to protect those whom the system fails. Why do you do what you do? It’s not to protect people; you left that, and even vengeance behind awhile back. You do it because you want to hurt people who do wrong. How is that better?”

“It’s justice. Justice needs to be done. Maybe there’s a place for mercy and all that shit in your Heaven, or with your God, but not here, not now.”

“There’s more to justice than punishment. Social justice. Restorative justice. They all have their place. You once compared the crime in this city to a ball of fire ants scrambling over each other to get to the top. Well, what is going to be more effective? Stomping on one ant at a time and making really sure that that one ant is extra dead, or changing the environment so that the ants don’t get established in the first place?”

"Changing the environment? Ain’t that what Fisk thought he was trying to do? Getting rid of all the poor people? Restorative justice is all well and good for the dumbass punk kid tagging bodegas. Sure, make him clean it up. And you go right on ahead and be the one to give him a spanking and send him home to his mother. If that’s what you’re gonna focus on, if you’re quitting the big leagues to deal with the two bit punks, go ahead. I’ll deal with the big boys who are killing each other.

“Look, Red,” Frank continued, checking his emotions a little. “You were all ready to kill the Blacksmith a few months ago, now you’re preaching no killing again. You have your function, I have mine. But the difference between us is that I can acknowledge that you have a use, but you are pretending you can’t see the point of my side.”

“I see the point of your side, Frank. But I have to believe in the law,” Matt said, with the hint of a plea of desperation in his voice. “This isn’t the wild west. If the system is broken, we work to fix it.”

“Damnit, Red. You’re already working outside the system. Are you that much of a fucking hypocrite? You get to bend the rules, but only you?” Frank scoffed. “And here I thought you were supposed to be some brilliant legal mind.”

Matt stood and walked away, neither quickly nor slowly, but resolutely. “Shut up, Frank. We’re done.”

Frank watched Matt disappear over the side of the building. He listened for him, but as was his way, Daredevil made surprisingly little sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title alludes to Crime and Punishment (obviously), by Fyodor Dostoevsky. No specific connection, though Frank and Raskolnikov do both kill a pawn broker. The second half is a nod to Oscar Wilde’s poem “The Ballad of Reading Gaol.”
> 
> Anarchy, the center cannot hold, what rough beast - Frank is paraphrasing from “The Second Coming,” a poem by William Butler Yeats. 
> 
> My take on Matt is that he’s interested in seeing that justice is done, and he believes that mercy is the fulfillment of true justice, at least intellectually, thus the mentions of restorative and social justice. In Catholic circles, social justice heavily associated with the Jesuits and some elderly nuns. This is also a little nod to the comics. *spoilers ahead* In Mark Waid’s run on the book, Matt’s mother was arrested for trespassing on a weapons site. The story was inspired by [a similar story that actually happened](http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/11/science/behind-nuclear-breach-a-nuns-bold-fervor.html).


	14. Denouement - Go west young man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things draw to a close and Frank imparts some advice.

Matt stood on the roof of his building. Any sighted person would’ve appreciated the long, golden rays of the evening sun, which hung low in the sky. Matt, however, simply stood quietly and occasionally shooed away a pigeon. 

“Matt,” called a voice from behind his left shoulder.

He jumped. He hadn’t been meditating, not exactly, but he had allowed himself to become engrossed in his thoughts and lulled into a sense of complacency by the warm evening and the warm sun. He recovered quickly and turned toward Frank, who walked over to him while still managing to cling to the sparse shadow and cover he could find on the roof.

“Frank,” he responded. 

Frank stopped a respectful distance from Matt, which also kept him out of range of an immediate punch or kick. “You’re slipping. You let me get the jump on you. I haven’t surprised you that much since our first encounter, when I shot you.” He shook his head. “You’re not even suited up.”

“I’m Matt right now,” he responded simply. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you— that you’d let me find you again. After how we parted last time. Sorry,” he finally said, after a long pause.

Frank nodded curtly. For a moment, he just stood by Matt, watching the sun set. “What you don’t get, Red, is that I respect who you are and what you do. You remember when I said you’d make a hell of a Marine?”

Matt nodded.

“You get how much of a compliment that is?” Frank let his guard drop slightly. For some reason it was always easier to do so around Matt, and seeing this stupid, noble, quixotic mess of a man continue to self-flagellate roused something approaching compassion in him. “You are an infuriating ball of contradictions and hypocrisy, but I stand by what I said. I respect you enough that I would fight by your side. Hell, I respect you enough that I’ve put aside executing shitbags for these conversations. Work your shit out, figure out your boundaries and what lines you won’t cross, and stick with them.” Frank turned to go, “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

Matt held up a hand in a friendly gesture and called after Frank. Frank turned and looked, expectantly. 

Instead of arguing or trying to justify his philosophy, Matt just asked in an odd voice, “is the sun setting?”

Frank cocked his head, and at length, nodded. “Yeah. Why, you getting ready to go out?”

Matt shook his head. “How’s it look?”

Frank looked at Matt evenly. “Like a sunset,” he stated, with a hint of a question, imploring Matt to continue.

Matt smiled sadly and teased, “c’mon, you quoted all that poetry at me and this is the best you can do? ‘Like a sunset?’”

“I _quoted_ poetry. I don’t write it.” Frank sighed. “You remember colors?”

Matt nodded.

“The sky is streaked with orange and pink, leading to the inky blue of night,” Frank started. “There are some wispy clouds that are reflecting the rose tones. The sun is nearly on the horizon, huge and orange red.”

“Thank you,” Matt said softly. 

Frank cocked his head and considered him. “You okay?” he grunted out.

Matt was quiet for a bit. “I accept my life as it is, embrace it, even. I’ve been blind for much longer than I had sight. This is a part of who I am now, and I don’t know how it’d change me or my life had the accident never happened. But there are a few things I miss. I can usually get someone to describe things to me, if I ask. Foggy got pretty good at narrating things; people’s body language, how a landscape looked. It’s a great tool to use on a date,” he added with a puckish smile. “I had a couple of girls melt when I asked them to describe something beautiful.” He didn’t add that they were less inclined to melt the third or fourth time, once they’d realized that being with Matt meant that providing such commentary was a normal part of the relationship, not necessarily something charming or intimate. “I miss sunsets,” he finished wistfully.

Frank maintained his impassive demeanor, but his cold, guarded heart of stone cracked a little for Matt. “I bet Karen will describe any sunset you ask her to,” he said in a choked voice. Matt’s mouth twitched in a tight smile. “You might miss some things, but you’ve done alright for yourself, though. Anyone with your sob story of a background would be given special consideration; losing your parents, growing up under nuns, blind… But you got an education and a career,” Matt laughed derisively at that, “and you can do frankly impressive things when fighting.” 

None of what Frank said was untrue, and yet the heaviness lingered over Matt. “What else is it. There’s something else you regret,” Frank said.

“When I was a kid, I remember looking through a National Geographic magazine and seeing these bright, chaotic pictures of foreign countries. Animals, bazaars, mosques and temples, mountains. But I’ve never left the US. I’ve barely left New York. I don’t even have a passport. And sometimes, on warm evenings like this, I just miss seeing the sun set over the city.” His mouth quirked in a sad smile.

“Hell, Red, you can still travel. You said Elektra left you a pile of money; take Karen and go. Go eat pastries and drink wine in Paris. Put your Spanish to use and go drink in a bar Hemingway drank in. Go pray in St. Peter’s Basilica. Have Karen describe the Sistine Chapel to you. Find someplace sunny and sandy and drink things out of coconuts, or whatever it is people do on fancy beaches.”

“She has her work. I have mine, too. Besides. I’m Irish. I don’t really do well in direct sun,” he deflected.

“Well, then skip the beach. You’re self-employed. Arguing down parking tickets and suing people who fax junk mail can wait till you get back. I bet the Bulletin would love to have a foreign correspondent, especially if you foot the bill.” Frank paused to collect his thoughts and reflect on how batshit both his and Matt’s lives must be if he was giving Matt life advice. “You’ve been given a second chance. Or maybe a third or fourth or god knows what. Maybe you’re a fucking cat or something. I don’t know. But point is, you’re here, you’re alive, you have the means, go _live_. Because you still can.” The unspoken “and others can’t” hung heavily in the air. “And who knows how long you will in your line of work,” he added, attempting to undercut the earlier earnestness with a dose of cynicism. “Now, you can take my advice or not. Probably not, ‘cause you’re a stubborn sonofabitch. You said early on that New Yorkers have the city in their blood, but at some point they have to get out. Go. Live. The city will be waiting for you when you get back.”

Matt stood in silence, appreciating the fading warmth of the setting sun. As always, Frank got under his skin and had points to make, no matter how much Matt wanted to dismiss the man outright. Escaping with Elektra had been a fantasy, but leaving New York wasn’t in and of itself. Frank was right. He had the means and the time; everyone was regrouping still. His contacts required in person conversations, but Karen had above board connections would keep him apprised of the rumblings of the city, and he had no doubt that Stick would show up in person if the Hand got up to something. A slow smile spread across his face as he warmed to the idea of going somewhere, if only for a short while, if only for some perspective. “I have always wanted to go to San Francisco,” he said at length.

Frank made the slightest sniff of acknowledgement, and both men continued to face west, where the last traces of the sun were disappearing beyond the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been a journey. This was my first real stab at fic, and I think I’ve learned a lot from these fourteen chapters (and two interludes), first and foremost, if I ever want to write plot, I’ll need to outline it and not just wing it. I set out to flesh out the MCU characters, borrowing liberally from the comics, and above all, I hope I’ve succeeded at that. I know I’ve gotten a couple of details wrong, but overall, I think (hope) this stands. It’ll probably be awhile before I can do the last two pieces I want to do. I know how I want to do Matt and Foggy’s reconciliation, but to get there, I need to do “Heroes and their Consequences,” which I’m having trouble shaping. It’ll either be Matt dropping in at the support group, Karen writing an article, or some combination thereof. If you have suggestions, please do leave a comment. Hope you’ve enjoyed the ride. Thanks for all reading and all the kudos and comments!


End file.
